Not Exactly Fort Knox
by dumpling47
Summary: Sherlock discovers a private folder on John's computer, and its contents are enough to make him wonder whether they are, in fact, 'just friends'. Beginnings of Johnlock.
1. A Secret Folder

_**I'm hoping for this to be a three-part story ... we'll see!**_

* * *

He really doesn't know what he hopes to accomplish, hacking into John's laptop like this. It's not like he's trying to prove a point or anything; John already knows he's fully capable of it. Maybe he likes having control; knowing exactly what John is up to at all times. But what sort of friend does that, anyway? A complete stalker, that's who ... or maybe a complete wanker of a pal. He isn't really sure.

Reasoning aside, it's taken Sherlock less than two minutes to guess the password ('Rebecca', John's latest girlfriend - could it be any more obvious?), and now he's got access to a wealth of information.

Well, not really. It's pretty standard. Several photos, a resume, a couple medical documents. Nothing too terribly exciting.

That is, until he discovers the folder in the corner.

'PRIVATE', it reads.

Sherlock bristles with excitement. What could John possibly be hiding away in there? Surely not porn; that would be awfully boring. John doesn't seem the type for simple kicks, anyway - not when he's always got a girl attached to his hip.

He knows he's overstepping his boundaries, but he doesn't care. He prepares himself for the worst when he clicks on the folder. Even the great Sherlock Holmes can't deduce what John could possibly have in there.

It's a stash of documents. The first one to catch his eye is 'An Ode to Sarah', dated from back last month.

Ugh. Sherlock rolls his eyes. He doesn't even want to investigate further into that one. There's plenty of others just like it.

He clicks on it anyway.

_'Roses are red, violets are blue,'_ the poem begins. _'Oh, who the hell am I kidding? I'm not in love with you.'_

Sherlock lets out a disparaging laugh. 'Private', indeed! Sarah surely would've broken it off sooner if John had ever sent her the bloody thing. He looks through all the other poems - similar in nature, all addressed to a number of girls.

For all his genius, Sherlock can't figure it out. Why should John date all these women and feel nothing for any of them? It doesn't make sense.

That is, until he finds the document simply labeled 'Sherlock'.

He feels his throat constrict. What in the name of -? He clicks it quickly, suddenly panicking that John will return home from the shopping at any moment. He takes a deep breath and begins reading the long paragraph that pops up before him.

_'I don't know what's happening to me'_, it reads. _ 'I've tried telling myself, time and time again, that I'm not gay - that I'm interested in women. Which I am. I just ... I've suddenly got an exception ..."_

Sherlock doesn't know if he can continue reading, but he does anyway.

_'It's Sherlock, of all people. It doesn't help that he lives with me, damn it! It doesn't help that he's completely gorgeous, and brilliant, too._ _I don't know how long this has lasted; probably from the moment I clapped eyes on him. God, this is ridiculous. I don't even know why writing it down makes it better, but somehow, it does.'_

It goes on to list off all the things John likes best about his flatmate, not limited to: his cheekbones, his hair, his voice, his physique (he does walk around in a sheet, so for him to not notice, well ...), his intellect, his dark sense of humor ... well, practically everything. The list goes on and on.

Sherlock's flattered, but more than that, he's shocked - almost ridiculously so. How had he not picked up on John's attraction to him earlier? Is he really that dense?

A boot creaks on the stair; Sherlock panics and clicks out of the folder, slamming the laptop shut.

"Sherlock, you look like you've just committed a murder," John says, entering the flat. "What are you up to?"

"Hmm? Nothing," Sherlock says absentmindedly.

"Hey - that's my computer!"

"Obviously." Sherlock can hardly keep his voice steady.

"But the password -"

"As I've said before, not exactly Fort Knox."

John's face flushes with color. "Sherlock, you have a laptop of your own! Why can't you just -"

"Why are you getting so upset, John?" Sherlock asks testily, arching an eyebrow. "It's almost as though you've got something to hide."

John lets out a sigh of defeat. "You were looking through my private folder, weren't you." It's not even voiced as a question. It's said in such a resigned manner, as though he's already accepted his fate.

Sherlock nods, surprised at how meek he feels. He can barely croak out his next words:

"John ... you said you fancied me, in your - your -"

John coughs uncomfortably. "Well, I - you know -"

"No, I don't know," Sherlock says, his voice hitching. "I never even suspected."

"Yes, well, I've had a damn difficult job hiding it, though I suspect just about everyone else has it figured out by now. Mrs. Hudson, for example."

"Oh, please. She knew even before it started."

John looks confused. "I don't suppose you feel anything - the same -"

Sherlock swallows. "It's asking a lot of me, John."

"I realize that."

"But only in the sense that I've never really been emotionally attached to anyone. I was thinking - maybe we could try things out? See how it all works, in the end?"

John smiles. "I would like that."

Sherlock runs a hand through his hair, suddenly uncomfortable. "John?"

"Yeah?"

"If I hadn't discovered that folder, would you have told me, ever?"

"I don't know. Probably. Eventually."

"I see."

Things are vastly awkward for both parties. John breaks the silence.

"I hope I haven't scared you off."

"Nothing of the kind. You have excellent taste."

John laughs, but the sound is hollow and empty. "I don't suppose you're interested in sex," he says bluntly.

"I wouldn't be averse to it."

"Er, okay. I'll keep that in mind."

John shuffles off, burning with embarrassment, half-furious with Sherlock for snooping around on his computer, half frustrated that he can't express what he's feeling. Sherlock's being polite; it's the only explanation. He can't possibly feel the same way that John feels for him.

Can he?

* * *

Sherlock's about to drift off to sleep, but everything just feels so _wrong_. Shouldn't he be sleeping with John? Isn't that how it works? He doesn't know.

One thing he knows for certain: he really, truly does like John, as more than a friend. He's glad he found the folder, really, and the secret document, too. But if he'd given John time, waited until his friend got the bollocks to speak up for himself, would things be less uncomfortable? Probably.

What's happened has happened, though, and Sherlock can't force things any other way. He slips out of bed and pulls a blanket about his lithe frame, padding down the hallway to John's room.

_He loves me_, he constantly has to remind himself. _And I most likely, probably, feel the same way back. Now if only I'd grow a pair and reciprocate a little!_

Sherlock knocks on his flatmate's door tentatively.

"Sherlock?" John's voice is muffled.

"Yes."

"Come in," John calls.

Sherlock pushes the door open.


	2. A Stolen Kiss

_**Ooh, this got a lot of follows ... which only encourages me even more to continue! Thanks for reading :)**_

* * *

John watches Sherlock enter his room, in nothing but a blanket. He should be used to this, seeing as Sherlock's walked around with less on before, but all the same, his breathing nearly stops. He sits up in an attempt to regain control.

"I know this is sudden," John says, "But I appreciate your trying it out. I mean, it's probably -"

Before John can continue, Sherlock silences him with a kiss. It's long and warm and passionate - so unexpected, coming from Sherlock - that John can only hope he's functioning enough to reciprocate.

"Oh my God," John breathes, once he's come up for air.

"Not good?" Sherlock asks, pulling away quickly, suddenly self-conscious.

"No, more than good," John answers. "It was - it was great, Sherlock."

Sherlock crawls up onto the bed, the blanket all but forgotten. John can't stop staring at his friend's beautiful physique - his slender, capable muscles, the softness of his bum ... and a certain rock-hard member down below. John blushes like a schoolgirl. Sherlock may not love him, but he's certainly attracted.

"I'm going about this poorly," Sherlock says suddenly, running a hand through his curls (something he does when he's nervous, John notices). "I've always - _always_ - put my work as the first priority. I don't know how to do this with other people. Especially with you, John. You're - you're important to me. I don't want to screw this up."

John is touched, but he wants immediately for Sherlock to stop worrying and kiss him like he did before. He tells him so.

"Oh? Okay." Sherlock smiles, leaning in and wrapping his arms around John, kissing him square on the mouth. "I've never kissed anyone before," he admits. "Not even when I was younger. Can you believe that?" He's suddenly self-conscious. "Oh, damn. I suppose I've just killed the mood, saying that."

"Not at all," John insists. "I just - the only thing is, Sherlock, I don't want you to feel like you're being forced into this. As long as you're enjoying yourself, nothing else matters, okay?"

Sherlock nods. "We'll take it slow?"

"Yes. Anything you want."

John wants this badly, and Sherlock seems to want it as well, so John pulls his friend in by his thin waist and buries his face into the crook of his arm, letting out a relaxed sigh. Sherlock practically shivers with excitement, even though they've done nothing special.

John rather likes it this way, though. He's shagged enough people to know that usually, even the best of fuckings don't come close to just _being_ with someone. Especially when that person is as fantastic and beautiful as Sherlock Holmes.

Sherlock, on the other hand, is feeling a plethora of different emotions. He's feeling, for maybe the first time in his life, true fear. Now that he's had the chance to be close to John, to truly appreciate him (though perhaps in a rather unsatisfying way for the opposite party), he knows it's love. Somehow, he's always known. Even if their relationship never progressed beyond this, Sherlock would know for certain.

It's a foreign emotion to him, and it's scary. Sure, he'd loved his parents and sometimes maybe even his brother, but nothing - absolutely nothing - like this. He would even give up his detective work for John, and that's saying something.

The nice thing, though, is that he knows he won't have to, because John is perhaps the most tolerant, understanding being on Earth.

Oh, John. John, John, _John_. Sherlock can't stop thinking about him, as they continue to caress each other. Loyal, smart, steadfast John. Once again, he's somehow, in the back of his mind, always known. They're both polar opposites, and yet, somehow, they work so well together. Logic can't explain it, but damn it, he doesn't want logic, for once in his life! He just wants this: this feeling, this love, this being with John, holding him, talking to him, loving him in the best way he knows how.

"Sherlock?" John asks, pulling back a little. "You good?"

"Yes," Sherlock says throatily, kissing along the edge of John's jaw. "More than good, as you so aptly put it before."

"I love you," John finally admits. "I think I always have, ever since you figured me out at St. Bart's."

Sherlock grins. "I feel the same way," he says, pressing up against his friend, momentarily startled when their erections touch. "Granted, I thought you were an idiot at first, but there was certainly a connection -"

"Oh, shut up," John laughs, shoving Sherlock back onto the bed. Sherlock, bursting with energy and excitement, invites the fall and lands back on the sheets, splaying his limbs out in a dramatic fashion.

"You shut up," he says boldly. "We've had enough talking this evening."

The light from the window illuminates Sherlock's body in a pale glow, and John finds himself even more aroused than before. And there, right in the middle, is Sherlock's cock, pulsing with blood. He wants so badly to touch it, to squeeze it, to satisfy Sherlock, but he's still worried. What if he scares him off? It's not as though his friend is the flighty sort, but in matters of the heart, one would hardly know for sure.

He decides to be brave and carry out his plan.

Sherlock lets out a rather unmasculine cry, but a pleasured one, at that.

"Oh, God," he moans, throwing his head back. "Now _that_, well - John. Do that again."

John smiles, this time choosing to be more intimate, rubbing in slow, steady circles, finishing with a squeeze.

"Oh, God," Sherlock says again ... and again ... and again. John can hardly believe the success of his plan; hell, Sherlock can't believe it, either. And that's why he asks for more - so that he can prove to himself that this is actually happening, that he's truly enjoying himself.

"I love you, John Watson," he says, his breathing ragged. "And now I finally understand why you're such a success with women."

"What, you don't think I have the looks to attract a woman?" John asks, laughing. "Or the brains?"

"_Well_ ..."

John smirks and shoves a pillow into Sherlock's smug face. "Take that, you arrogant nutter."

Sherlock bursts into a fit of hysterical giggles. "John!" he cries as his friend removes the pillow. "I want to tell you something."

"Yeah?" John asks, lying down beside his friend (or, rather, lover ... or both) and snuggling up close. He takes Sherlock's hands in his own. Sherlock's quiet for a moment, so John speaks up. "You were saying something, love?"

"This - this here - it makes me happy," Sherlock says. "I just wanted to, er, get that out there. I don't know what I'm doing, but I'm willing to let you guide me."

"You could've fooled me," John says, touched by Sherlock's honesty. "You seemed to know what you were doing, is all I can say! But, hey, Sherlock -?"

"Yes?"

"You love me too, right?"

"I told you I did. I don't suppose I stuttered?" His tone is joking.

John smiles cheekily. "Yeah, okay, you arse. I just wanted to tell you - you don't have to be scared of this. I know it's your first time doing any of this, and I, well -"

Sherlock rolls his eyes. "It's all fine, John. I promise."

John nods. "I'm still completely furious with you, though."

"For being so attractive?"

"Well, yeah, but that wasn't what I meant," John says in a mock-serious tone. "I mean, you shouldn't just hack into my computer, you know? Some things are off-limits."

"Yes, but you probably wouldn't have confessed your undying love if I hadn't discovered the folder."

"Yeah, okay, that's the one exception. Otherwise, just don't touch it, alright?" John reconsiders. "Well, maybe I'll relent a little. Just don't read those old poems, okay? I'm beyond embarrassed about them."

"Speaking of old poems," Sherlock says, pecking John on the nose, "You're going to have to lose Rebecca, you know that? I mean, I'm assuming we're a couple now."

"Of course we're a couple," John answers. "Consider Rebecca history. I'm all yours now."

Sherlock drifts off to sleep with a satisfied smile on his face.


	3. A Sherlockian Sonnet

_**Last chapter! Hopefully this wraps it up neatly enough!**_

* * *

The next day, John wakes to find the bed very warm and very empty. Sherlock has gotten up, and recently.

Instantly, John panics. Has he done something wrong? Sherlock had been so cautious the night before, so uncertain ... has he merely been humoring his friend? Has he dodged out of the room as soon as possible?

No, that can't be true. Sherlock Holmes doesn't do things out of politeness - at least not usually. It makes John curious, though. Sherlock had finally seemed to be getting comfortable with the situation - seemed to be reciprocating John's feelings, even - but one usually realizes one's mistakes by morning. What if Sherlock had realized his?

John thinks on the matter only for a second before rushing downstairs, not caring if he looks like a buffoon in his old shirt and red pants. He finds Sherlock in the kitchen, no more dressed than he is, staring blankly at his mess of experiments.

Something's wrong; John just knows it.

"Sherlock?" he asks.

"This wasn't meant to happen, John," Sherlock says, his voice rushed. "I wasn't meant to find that folder in the first place - I was nosy, and I'm sorry, and I just don't think this was how it was meant to go -"

"Sherlock!" John insists, holding up a calming hand. "Sherlock," he says, his voice warmer. "Do me a favor, would you?"

"John?"

"Shut up for about two seconds, okay? Nothing was meant to happen in any way. It doesn't matter that you found a bloody file, got it?"

"But I -"

"Didn't I just tell you to shut up?" John says with a grin. Sherlock's mouth opens in complaint, but John silences him with a kiss. It's long and warm and a bit sloppy - nowhere near perfect. That's a rather nice thing about it, though. It's not supposed to be perfect.

It feels just right for the both of them, though.

Sherlock pulls away, cheeks flushed. "Oh, God," he breathes. "I love you, John. So much."

This time he takes the initiative, to both of their surprise. He pushes John up against the table, his lips and his body hard against his lover's. Some of the chemistry equipment rolls off the table and onto the floor, probably leaving a godawful mess, but for once, Sherlock doesn't care. Experiments be damned, when he's got John Hamish Watson bent over backwards.

John isn't about to let him get away with being on top, though - he was always a stubborn one, in that respect. He leans heavily into the kiss so as to push Sherlock back, guiding him into the sitting room, where they fall back onto the sofa. Sherlock finds himself trapped under John's weight, though he doesn't bother struggling up again. He likes this ... he likes it very much.

"I absolutely love those red pants on you," he mentions as John tosses them aside.

"If you even think about saying 'they'd look much better on the floor', I just might have to kill you," John says with a husky laugh, pulling his shirt over his head. He then hungrily pulls away Sherlock's clothing, grinning as it slips easily off his slender frame. He wonders not for the first time why someone as attractive as Sherlock would ever settle for him, but pushes the thought away immediately. And yet, he can't deny being curious.

"You're like a teddy bear," Sherlock says admiringly, as if in answer to his question. "A small, cuddly, loyal teddy bear."

"Sherlock Holmes, one for sentiment?" John says as he bites at Sherlock's lower lip.

"Not sentiment - merely an observation."

John finds himself beyond relieved. He likes the idea that Sherlock sees him in such a light. Tall, sleek, dark, handsome Sherlock, and the cuddly, affectionate John. They're perhaps the least likely pairing in all of London, but one hard to improve upon.

* * *

"Sherlock!" John shouts one morning, about a week into their relationship. "What the hell? I thought I told you that was private!"

Sherlock's scrolling through John's computer, and so far he hasn't found anything incriminating. For once in his life, he actually has a reason for invading his friend's privacy: he's worried that John might cheat on him. It doesn't matter that John is as loyal as they come - he's always been one with the ladies, and women have always been eager to reciprocate. He's been afraid to admit this insecurity to his lover, but already, a mere seven days after their coming together, he's worried about other suitors.

Sherlock explains as much, in not as many words.

"Oh, Sherlock," John says, perching on his friend's lap, "You know I'd never cheat on you, right? I'd never be able to live with myself if I did."

That's all the confirmation Sherlock needs. "Thank you, John," he says softly, pulling the doctor in close. A sudden thought strikes him. "Though I _am_ curious about another thing ..."

"What?" John asks warily.

"I don't suppose you're still writing poetry?"

"About you?" John laughs. "You're indescribable, Sherlock. I wouldn't even begin to know what to write."

He says this just as Sherlock comes upon a file he hasn't seen before. He opens it, and John protests.

"Sherlock, that's a complete invasion of privacy -"

"_'A Sherlockian Sonnet'?_" the detective exclaims. "Ooh, this should be good!"

"SHERLOCK!"

Sherlock sighs, closing the file. "Oh, alright," he says, turning off the computer and handing it to John. "You're right; I should know my limits. But you're not so bad a poet, you know that? You could always share it with me -"

"Maybe another time," John says with an awkward cough.

Sherlock shrugs. John goes across the room and hooks the laptop up to its charger.

"My reason being," John continues, as if he needs an excuse, "Is that I don't need your ego getting any more inflated than it already is."

"Hmm." Sherlock's shaking with silent laughter. "Alright, then. Do as you must."

John exits the room, hoping that Sherlock can be trusted. He turns around abruptly and faces Sherlock with a baffled expression.

"How'd you hack into that, anyway?" he asks, incredulous. "I know it's not some not some top-security vault, but I don't see how you figured out -"

"Sherlock&John4Ever?" Sherlock says, leaning back in his chair. "Hardly top-security, as you've just acknowledged. I figured it out in less than thirty seconds."

"But I -"

Sherlock laughs. "Don't you worry, John, I won't be invading your privacy anytime soon, okay?"

John smiles, finally deciding to trust his friend. "Okay."

He re-enters the room and gives Sherlock a big kiss, just for good measure. He'll have to add 'master codebreaker' to his sonnet somewhere. It's one of Sherlock's numerous talents, after all, and it would be a shame to exclude it from the poem.


End file.
